Forsaken
by CrossoverManiac
Summary: One night, Shampoo's mistreatment of Mousse goes too far and leads Mousse to a man that will change his life forever.
1. Default Chapter

Forsaken  
  
by Crossover Maniac  
  
Prologue.  
  
Ranma 1/2 and all characters except Paul Sherman belong to Rumiko Takahashi.  
  
Nermia: 11:00 p.m.  
  
Mousse sat Indian-style on the railroad tracks running on the outskirts of Nermia. It was pitch black at this time of night. Clouds covered the stars during the night of a new moon. Mousse hugged himself tightly shivering. How fitting, he thought, that the night he would end his existence would so readily fit his life: cold, dark and bleak. A light a few miles down the tracks stabbed the darkness. The 10:48 freight train to Nermia is always a few minutes later, he thought. He started rubbing the fresh scar running down his arm. It hurts to think about it, how she... Mousse stopped in mid thought when he heard a voice calling out to him.  
  
"Hey kid, you might wanna spend a day to two thinking over your decision to meet your maker on account that suicide's a little permanent." The voice seemed to Mousse strangely familiar.  
  
Mousse stood up. "Who are you, how did you know I would be out here, and what's business is it of yours?"  
  
"One: I was at the Neko Cafe just a while ago," the voice called out as its source stepped out of the shadows and into the light of a streetlamp, "two: I've seen that look on your face a dozen times before and each time it was just before some poor idiot got zipped into a body bag, and three: I make it my business." The figure was very tall. In fact, he was taller than any man Mousse ever seen before.  
  
"Now I remember you," Mousse replied. "Go home, old man. You can't force me off these tracks." The train whistled in the background. The man pulled out a gun from his coat pocket. Mousse was a bit surprised to see it since he was trained to detect conceal weapons by his sensei in the art of Hidden Weapons. "So, you're going to save me the trouble of suicide and kill me yourself." Mousse stretched his arms out as if to embrace the Grim Reaper himself. The tracks were shaking as the train's headlights were illuminating the spot where Mousse was standing.  
  
"Kid, I don't feel like dragging you back to town, so get off those tracks, NOW!"  
  
"I'd rather you'd shoot." Pleads to get off the track were being shouted by the conductor of the train.  
  
And the man did just that. It wasn't very loud, due to the fact that the gun was equipped with a silencer on the end of the barrel. Mousse was knocked back a few inches. To Mousse's surprise, instead of blood staining his ceremonial fighting robes, a cylinder with hairs on the end was sticking out of his chest. He pulled the object out of his chest and saw a needle on the end. As he did, he felt light-headed; the world was spinning; the lights from the train and streetlamps were blurs. "What did you...do to.... do to... to me?" Mousse tried to say over the roar of the train. Then he felt something impacting his chest knocking him to the ground. All he could make out now was the passing of the cars of train.  
  
Neko Cafe, Nermia-one hour ago  
  
Things were rather slow at the cafe. It was almost closing time and only four customers came in for the whole day. Near the doorway between the cafe and kitchen stood Cologne on her ever vigil watch for customer. She pouted with her walking cane leaning against the wall beside her. Business will have to pick up or else she wouldn't be able to afford to stay in Japan, and that would mean her Amazon tribe would not have Ranma's offspring, as its next generation of warriors. Cologne then heard the bell on the Neko Cafe door ring. Ah, a customer. I'd better send Shampoo to great him, she thought. "Shampoo!"  
  
"Yes, Grandmother," Shampoo replied as she leaned out the kitchen door.  
  
"We have a customer. Do your best to make a good impression on him." Shampoo made her way to the door. "I hope the customer is a man," Cologne whispered to herself. "They are always more receptive to pretty young girls."  
  
Shampoo smiled as she skipped over to the door. "Welcome to Neko Cafe. Me am Sham..." Shampoo stopped in mid-sentence and twisted her lips as if she swallowed an entire bottle of lemon extract. Cologne didn't like the looks of things. Of all the times for Shampoo to make a customer feel unwanted... Cologne rushed to the door. Then she got a look at her newest customer.  
  
He stood almost at six and a half feet and was around sixty to sixty-five years old. He was wrinkled and balding at the top of his head, and what hair he had looked like gray wool. But his most noticeable feature was his skin color. His skin was ebony. "I heard this was the best restaurant in the area," he said. By his accent, he was American. He was also black.  
  
"An understatement I assure you," bragged Cologne, "this restaurant is the best in all of Japan, Mr. ..."  
  
"Paul Sherman. My name is Paul Sherman."  
  
"Well, Mr. Sherman, I'll have my granddaughter sit you to a table." Cologne poked Shampoo with her cane. "Granddaughter!" Shampoo just stood there with that same sour look on her face. "Remember, good impression on the customer." Cologne said in Chinese hoping the foreigner didn't understand that language.  
  
"Yes, grandmother." Shampoo led Paul Sherman to the table in a corner away from the windows. "Servant boy will bring menu."  
  
Shampoo walked in the kitchen and called out for Mousse. Almost instantaneously, Mousse ran to Shampoo's side. He was covered in garbage and wreaked of the fowl odor of rotten vegetable and sour refuge. "Yes, my love."  
  
Shampoo's lips became even more twisted upon Mousse's greeting. "Grandmother has customer. Mousse, get cleaned-up and give him menu."  
  
Mousse looked a little perplexed. "But can't you go out there and serve him? Is there something wrong?  
  
"Stupid duck boy! Look out and see!" Mousse peeked out the door and saw Paul sitting in the far corner tapping his feet, impatiently. Mousse ducked back into the kitchen (no pun intended). "I don't see anything wrong."  
  
Shampoo grabbed Mousse by the collar. "Customer is filthy negro. Shampoo don't want black rubbed off on her. Make you go out instead."  
  
Not wanting to argue with Shampoo, Mousse cleaned himself off as best he could and came out with Paul Sherman's menu. "Sorry," Mousse apologized, "for keeping you waiting." He handed Paul his menu, which Paul angrily snatched from Mousse and wrinkled his nose when he caught Mousse's fowl scent. Mousse stopped himself from telling off the old man since he was setting there for so long waiting for his menu, especially with him being the Neko Cafe's only customer at this time. Mousse couldn't get over the fact that his beloved Shampoo could think that way about a person from a different race, but he couldn't bring himself to call her a racist even though it was the only logical conclusion.  
  
"I'll have the squid on a stick, the stew, and some wheat bread as the side order, and to drink, I'll have some beer."  
  
"Sir, our beer dispenser is out of order. We have some sake if you like."  
  
"Actually, I wouldn't. It always left a bad taste in my mouth. Do you have American liquor, Jack Daniels perhaps?"  
  
"No, we don't."  
  
"Are you sure? Because you're menu says it has alcoholic beverages from distant lands."  
  
"The menu's referring to China."  
  
"It also says throughout the world, so that's more than just China."  
  
"Look old man!" yelled Mousse, "I've been here a lot longer than you! I should know what we have and what we don't, and I say we don't have anything from America." Then Mousse felt the painful sting of Cologne's walking stick upon his head.  
  
Cologne bowed to Paul Sherman in a humble, apologetic manner. "Forgive the servant boy's rude behavior. The fee for your dinner will be taken out of his pay for the poor service."  
  
"What!" said Mousse.  
  
"Tell Shampoo to wait on our customer, and go to the liquor store and find that..." Cologne turned to Paul, "what was that drink again?"  
  
"Jack Daniels," answered Paul.  
  
"Find a Jack Daniels for Mr. Sherman."  
  
"But Shampoo said she was busy cleaning the kitchen," Mousse lied covering up for Shampoo's actual reason for not wanting to serve Paul Sherman.   
  
Cologne's answer was a swipe with her walking stick on Mousse's head. "Just go, servant boy." Mousse hesitantly went back into the kitchen to fetch Shampoo. Cologne turned to Paul and said, "I apology for the rudeness of our servant boy. He will not be working here tomorrow nor will he be allowed back into the Neko Cafe."  
  
"It wasn't such a big deal," chuckled Paul. "If I worked in a restaurant at his age, I would have told the customers where to stick their menu."  
  
"I'm glad to here you are of good cheer..." Cologne stopped in mid-sentence when she heard Mousse screaming from the kitchen. Paul and Cologne ran to the kitchen.  
  
When they came in, they saw Mousse nursing his left arm, which was drenched in blood. He was staring on in utter disbelief and shock at the object of his affection, love, and agony, which stood ten feet from him wielding a butcher knife stained in dark red.  
  
"What's going on here!" demanded Paul. "Well, care to explain this." His question was directed at Shampoo who looked cold and had a fierce look in her eyes.  
  
"It was an accident, Mr. Sherman," answered Mousse, grimly and solemnly. "That's all it was, an accident. I should have not been here," he was saying as he marched out the back door of the kitchen leaving a trail of blood behind.  
  
"Look, ma'am," Paul addressed Cologne, "I can come back another time." Cologne was speechless and unable to respond to Paul's farewell. Paul went out the backdoor of the kitchen as well. Cologne immediately snatched the knife from Shampoo's hand. "What were you thinking, granddaughter?"  
  
"Mousse wanted Shampoo to serve negro," Shampoo replied. "Shampoo has to deal at those people in Tokyo, when US soldiers on leave. They all want date with Shampoo. Makes Shampoo sick. Shampoo not deal with their kind here. Shampoo made sure Mousse got point." She made a gesture with her hand as if she still holding the knife and was making a swipe with it.  
  
"You have shamed me granddaughter. You know if you're going to cut a man, you should make sure he's dead, and do it when there are no witnesses."  
  
"What!" said Shampoo surprised at Cologne's words. Cologne then chuckled a little and started laughing. It didn't take long for Shampoo to join in.  
  
"Seeing Mousse's blood spilt on the floor was well worth loosing a customer," giggled Cologne. The two joked some more at Mousse's expense before they started cleaning up the blooded mess on the floor.  
  
Nermia: 11:00 p.m.  
  
Paul shadowed Mousse to the tracks. Now he knew how Mousse planned to end it all: wait for the train to come, all 10,000 tons at 40 mph. Well, Paul never left anyone in need to fend for themselves and wasn't going to start now. The kid sat down on the tracks Indian-style hugging himself tightly, shivering, and rubbing the fresh scar running down his arm.  
  
"Hey kid, you might wanna spend a day to two thinking over your decision to meet your maker on account that suicide's a little permanent," Paul yelled to Mousse.  
  
Mousse stood up. "Who are you, how did you know I would out here, and what's business is it yours?"  
  
"One: I was at the Neko Cafe just an hour ago," Paul Sherman said stepping out of the shadows and into the light of a streetlamp, "two: I've seen that look on your face a dozen times before and each time it was just before some poor idiot got zipped into a body bag, and three: I make it my business."  
  
"Now I remember you," Mousse replied. "Go home old man. You can't force me off these tracks." The train whistled in the background. Paul Sherman pulled out a gun from his coat pocket. "So, you're going to save me the trouble of suicide and kill me yourself." Mousse stretched his arms. The tracks were shaking as the train's headlights were illuminating the spot where Mousse was standing.  
  
"Kid, I don't feel like dragging you back to town, so get off those tracks, NOW!"  
  
"I'd rather you'd shoot." Pleads to get off the track were being shouted by the conductor.  
  
Paul pulled the trigger nailing Mousse in the chest. "I hope the tranquilizers take affect in the next few seconds," Paul whispered. Sure enough, Mousse was wobbling and struggling to keep his balance. Mousse said something but Paul couldn't make out what he was saying from the roar of the train. Paul tackled Mousse to the ground and dragged him out of the path of the train just before it came across the same spot occupied by Mousse a second ago. 


	2. Part 1: Mousse Faces the Truth: The love...

Forsaken  
  
Part 1: Mousse Faces the Truth: The love that was never meant to be  
  
All characters in this fan fic belong to Rumiko Takahashi except Paul Sherman who is mine and Superman who is owned by DC Comics. And no, this isn't a crossover. Superman is just mentioned, but not used in this fic.  
  
Mousse's head throbs in pain as he awoke from his deep drugged- induced slumber. He held his head in his right hand and moan out a curse at his terrible headache. The hard coil springs of a cheap mattress cut into Mousse's back. He realized was in a bed. Mousse opened his eyes only to see blotches of brown and irony. Mousse struggled to recall the events of last night that left him in a stranger's room. As he concentrated, Mousse began visualizing all that happened to him.  
  
"Stupid duck boy! Look out and see!" Mousse peeked out the door and saw Paul sitting in the far corner tapping his feet, impatiently.  
  
Mousse ducked back into the kitchen (no pun intended). "I don't see anything wrong."  
  
Shampoo grabbed Mousse by the collar. "Customer is filthy negro. Shampoo don't want black rubbed off on her. Make you go out instead."  
  
Mousse winched at the thought of his precious Shampoo as a racist. Mousse was tempted to stop right there, but he knew he had to keep searching in his memories for what happened to him.  
  
"Actually, I wouldn't. It always left a bad taste in my mouth. Do you have American liquor, Jack Daniels perhaps?"  
  
"No, we don't."  
  
"Are you sure? Because you're menu says it has alcoholic beverages from distant lands."  
  
"The menu's referring to China."  
  
"It also says throughout the world, so that's more than just China."  
  
"Look old man!" yelled Mousse, "I've been here a lot longer than you! I should know what we have and what we don't, and I say we don't have anything from America."  
  
It was the black man that Shampoo didn't want to serve. Why was his face so prevalent in his flashback Mousse asked himself?  
  
Cologne stopped in mid-sentence when she heard Mousse screaming from the kitchen. Paul and Cologne ran to the kitchen.  
  
When they came in, they saw Mousse nursing his left arm, which was drenched in blood. He was staring on in utter disbelief and shock at the object of his affection, love, and agony, which stood ten feet from him wielding a butcher knife stained in dark red.  
  
"What's going on here!" demanded Paul. "Well, care to explain this." His question was directed at Shampoo who looked cold and had a fierce look in her eyes.  
  
"It was an accident, Mr. Sherman," answered Mousse, grimly and solemnly. "That's all it was, an accident. I should have not been here," he was saying as he marched out the back door of the kitchen leaving a trail of blood behind.  
  
Mousse began to weep bitterly. His only love, Shampoo, tried to kill him and all because she did want to serve a customer. "Why, Shampoo, why?" he cried out. He rolled out of his bed and fell to the floor. Mousse was on his hands and knees beating the floor with his fists. The floor echoed with a hollow resonance with each blow. He got up and began feeling for his glasses wondering why he didn't end his miserable existence then and there.  
  
Mousse sat Indian-style on the railroad tracks running on the outskirts of Nermia. It was pitch black at this time of night. Clouds covered the stars during the night of a new moon. Mousse hugged himself tightly shivering. How fitting, he thought, that the night he would end his existence would so readily fit his life: cold, dark and bleak. A light a few miles down the tracks stabbed the darkness. The 10:48 freight train to Nermia is always a few minutes later, he thought.  
  
"Why I am still alive," Mousse whispered to himself?  
  
"Hey kid, you might wanna spend a day to two thinking over your decision to meet your maker on account that suicide's a little permanent." The voice seemed to Mousse strangely familiar.  
  
Mousse stood up. "Who are you, how did you know I would be out here, and what's business is it of yours?"  
  
"One: I was at the Neko Cafe just a while ago," the voice called out as its source stepped out of the shadows and into the light of a streetlamp, "two: I've seen that look on your face a dozen times before and each time it was just before some poor idiot got zipped into a body bag, and three: I make it my business." The figure was very tall. In fact, he was taller than any man Mousse ever seen before.  
  
"Now I remember you," Mousse replied. "Go home, old man. You can't force me off these tracks." The train whistled in the background. The man pulled out a gun from his coat pocket. Mousse was a bit surprised to see it since he was trained to detect conceal weapons by his sensei in the art of Hidden Weapons. "So, you're going to save me the trouble of suicide and kill me yourself." Mousse stretched his arms out as if to embrace the Grim Reaper himself. The tracks were shaking as the train's headlights were illuminating the spot where Mousse was standing.  
  
"Kid, I don't feel like dragging you back to town, so get off those tracks, NOW!"  
  
"I'd rather you'd shoot." Pleads to get off the track were being shouted by the conductor of the train.  
  
And the man did just that. It wasn't very loud, due to the fact that the gun was equipped with a silencer on the end of the barrel. Mousse was knocked back a few inches. To Mousse's surprise, instead of blood staining his ceremonial fighting robes, a cylinder with hairs on the end was sticking out of his chest. He pulled the object out of his chest and saw a needle on the end. As he did, he felt light-headed; the world was spinning; the lights from the train and streetlamps were blurs. "What did you...do to.... do to... to me?" Mousse tried to say over the roar of the train. Then he felt something impacting his chest knocking him to the ground. All he could make out now was the passing of the cars of train.  
  
Now, everything made sense to Mousse. That old fart from the Neko Café: he was the one that pushed him off the tracked at the last second. It was his fault; the old man was the one that turned Shampoo against him. What was his name again...aw yeah...Paul Sherman. And it was this Paul Sherman that wouldn't even allow Mousse the dignity to end his misery. All he need was his glasses and his armament of hidden weapons and he could...Suddenly, it dawned on him: he felt a lot lighter, as if half his body weight was gone. He reached into his coat and found all of his weapons-his chains, his throwing knives, his bombs-missing. The old fart did it to him again. Mousse felt naked without his hidden weapons. Mousse hit the wall with his fist or tried to hit the wall with his fist. He missed and fell over landing face first into the hard concrete floor. Mousse picked himself up and rubbed his nose. It wasn't broken, but it was bleeding. Mousse held his bloody nose and felt around for the bathroom in order to get some toilet paper to clean the blood off his face. Eventually, he managed to feel around and find a doorknob. Mousse opened the door and felt along the wall looking for a light switch.  
  
"I guess you found me out," called out a voice over Mousse's shoulder. Mousse may not be able to see, but he knew who was talking to him: Paul Sherman. "I'm the vigilante Armament," he said, "but it doesn't matter whether or not you know my second identity. I'm an old man who doesn't have long on this earth anyway. So you can tell whoever you want. I no longer care."  
  
"You old b@#$%d! What the hell are you babbling about?" Mousse spat.  
  
Paul Sherman franticly pointed inside the closet. "You don't see it: the Armament costume hanging up in the closet!"  
  
"Not without my glasses I can't."  
  
"That's right! I forgot you wear glasses. It looks like I gave myself away."  
  
"'Gave yourself away'?!?" said a bewildered Mousse. "And who's Armament?"  
  
Paul Sherman laughed. "A name I went by before your time. I should have known you haven't heard of Armament."  
  
"I don't care if you're Superman!" yelled Mousse. "You're going to pay for turning Shampoo against me."  
  
"You mean the girl that sliced you up with that butcher's knife."  
  
"You make it sound malicious," said Mousse defensively.  
  
"You're one serious lovesick fool."  
  
"I don't need my hidden weapons to send you to hell, old man! I can take you one hand-to-hand."  
  
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not using my bare hand, isn't it." Paul Sherman shot Mousse again with his tranquilizer dart.  
  
"Not...not...again." And Mousse collapsed into unconsciousness.  
  
Mousse woke up again in the same hard mattress with the same splitting headache he had the last time he woke up. Only this time, he was handcuffed to the front and back board of the bed. "Old man! Where are you?"  
  
"That's Paul Sherman to you, kid." Paul was sitting on a chair right next to Mousse. Outside each window was pitch darkness. Mousse pretty much slept the entire day away.  
  
"Don't you have something better to do than harass me? You're to blame for Shampoo turning against me."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be born black. That was my parents' fault."  
  
Mousse was in shock. "How did know about...what Shampoo said in the kitchen."  
  
"I didn't need to hear anything. I could tell by reading her body language; the way she looked at me, the tone of voice, the fact that she could wait to get away from me. When you're been around as long as me, you know these things."  
  
"Shampoo isn't a bigot! You're...you're...taking things out of context."  
  
"What is the color of the sky in that little world of yours?"  
  
Mousse slung his head back and hit the mattress. This Sherman guy was right. It was horrible to think of his precious Shampoo as a bigot.  
  
"I know this is hard on you, but you need come down to earth."  
  
"I understand. But even if she's a racist, I won't ever abandon her. I just have to overlook it, that's all."  
  
Paul jumped out of his chair and stomped his foot on the floor. His arms were swinging wildly. "You're impossible."  
  
"Even if she was a murderer, I'd still love Shampoo."  
  
"That's very sweet of you, kid..."  
  
"Mousse. My name is Mousse."  
  
"Well, that's very sweet of you Mousse," said Sherman trying in vain to hide his sarcasm, "but she doesn't feel the same about you." Paul Sherman pulled out a mini-tape recorder out of pocket. "I thought getting to you might be a little hard, so I bugged that little restaurant you worked in and taped this." He pressed play on the mini-recorder and laid it on the table.  
  
The tape recorder hissed with the crackling sound of static. Despite this, Mousse could make out the commotion of many people conversing among themselves in the café.  
  
"Shampoo!" a voice called out. It belonged to Ryoga. "Hey Shampoo! I need to talk to you for a sec."  
  
"Shampoo busy!" she spat. "Café been busy since stupid Duck Boy been gone. He no longer here to mess things up."  
  
"Well, if you see him, just tell him to come over to the Tendo dojo. Ranma wants to see him."  
  
"If Shampoo sees Mousse, Shampoo will kill Mousse."  
  
Mousse winched at the vicious tone of Shampoo's voice. It's like he's seeing a darker side of her. She sounded like the older members of the Amazon tribes: the ones set in the old ways of doing things, such as men being expendable; something even lower than the livestock to be toss asunder once it outlived it usefulness or simply became an annoyance.  
  
"Shampoo!" Akane Tendo yelled out. The sound of her feet was heard in the recorder, so she must have been stomping her feet the whole time. "How could say that about Mousse."  
  
"Easy, Mousse is garbage and deserves to die."  
  
"You don't mean that." It wasn't Akane but her older sister, Kasumi speaking this time. "I know you deep down inside like Mousse."  
  
"You're worried about him, aren't you?" asked Ryoga sheepishly.  
  
"Haw!" cackled Cologne. "It Shampoo was worried about that useless man, she wouldn't ask to call forth Ja'Noise Ho." At the sound of the word, Mousse gagged and threw up the little bit of food in his stomach.  
  
"Ja'Noise Ho?"  
  
"An old Amazon phrase. It literally means 'garbage that must be burned if the wind blows it back into the village'."  
  
"If stupid Duck Boy comes back to Amazon village or Neko Café, Amazons will kill him."  
  
"What sort of people are you!" yelled Akane. The entire café went quite for a second and then became noisy again. "Why would you do this?"  
  
"Men," said Cologne, "with the rare exception to specimen like my fiancé Ranma are waste of flesh and Mousse is the worse of them. Is that not right, my child?"  
  
"That's right Great-Grandmother," acknowledged Shampoo.  
  
"Come on, Ryoga, let's go back to the dojo," said Akane. "I won't be coming back again."  
  
"Neither will I, Akane," said Ryoga.  
  
"Kasumi, why are still standing around for?" Akane called out.  
  
Kasumi said in a low, almost scolding voice, "Shampoo, I've very disappointed in you." A few gasps at Kasumi's uncharacteristic words could be heard.  
  
Paul clicked off the recorder. He stood over Mousse who was wallowing in his own grief. "Why," he asked, "why did you show me all of this?"  
  
"Because I can't baby-sit a grown man. I hoped that maybe you knew the truth you could move on with your life."  
  
"Well you can forget about it, because Shampoo was my life. I don't know what to do without her."  
  
"I'll tell you what you could do, grow a backbone and be man that's what."  
  
"You know I'll just try to kill myself again."  
  
Paul, with a speed Mousse didn't expect from the elderly man, grabbed Mousse by the collar. He glared with righteous indignation at Mousse, who started to tremble in Paul Sherman's grip. "You're about as dumb as they come. That's what she wants you to do: kill yourself and do the dirty work for you." Paul dropped Mousse's head back on the couch. "Just answer me this one question and answer it honestly: do you think Shampoo would cry for you if they found you dead."  
  
Mousse started sweating. He knew better than anyone else the answer; an answer that ripped him from the inside. "She just thinks that I'm not worthy of her right now."  
  
"Just answer yes or not. You don't have time for an essay."  
  
"It's not that simple."  
  
"The hell it isn't. What's the point of pining over a woman that won't even shed a tear for you at your own funeral? Now tell me the answer."  
  
"No," Mousse cried, "no she wouldn't. Shampoo wouldn't cry for me if I died." and a floodgate of tears burst through Mousse's eyelids.  
  
"Now, let me ask you this: why would you want to die for a person like that?" Paul turned off the lights and lay down on a sleeping back on the floor. "I'll give you the rest of the night to think about what we talked about. See you in the morning." And he went to sleep while Mousse stared at the ceiling thinking about what he just said about Shampoo.  
  
"Shampoo wouldn't cry for me if I died."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
So ends part 2 of my little story. Thanks to the readers for showing an interest to the story, especially Maricruz. If not for your encouragement, I would have left story wither on the vine and forget about it. Thanks. 


	3. Mousse’s new path: The aftermath of a br...

Forsaken: Part 3 Ho hum. Time for the disclaimer. All character with exception to Paul Sherman belongs to Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Comics.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"I can't believe you'd healed in three days." Paul was sitting in a scratched up wooden chair next to the bed as Mousse lay there staring at the ceiling while Paul removed Mousse's stitches. All that was left of the knife wound Shampoo inflicted on him was a line one shade lighter than the rest of Mousse's skin. "Are you human, Mousse?"  
  
"Most of the time," replied Mousse. Paul laughed thinking Mousse was joking.  
  
"There," said Paul laying the scissors and cut strands on the nightstand, "you're as good as new." Mousse didn't reply. "You can get up now." Mousse seemed oblivious to Paul's presence and continued to stare up at the ceiling. "You could at least thank me for patching you back up."  
  
"Yeah, thanks for everything. If it wasn't for you, I could have ended my suffering days ago, but now, I can languish in misery."  
  
"I HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR $#! MOUSSE!!!" Paul grabbed a pitcher of ice water the maids left in his hotel room and threw it on Mousse. "NOW GET OUT OF MY ROOM BE..." To Paul Sherman's shock, the young man lying on his bed was now a white duck. The duck was squawking and flapping its wings knocking over the table and everything else in the room. It fled into the bathroom running hot water into the tub, hopped in, and then transformed back into Mousse.  
  
"Wh.. Wha...What in the ni...nine Hells just happened?" Paul stuttered. "How did you do that?"  
  
"Because you splashed me with cold water, old man!" yelled Mousse. "Never do that again. You'd done enough damage as it is." All of a sudden, someone was pounding on their door. Mousse ran over and swung the door open so hard, when it hit the wall, it knocked some of the plaster off. At the door was a short, fat man wearing causal business wear. "GO AWAY!" Mouse barked at the man.  
  
"Not as long as I own this place I won't." The person at the door was the owner of the hotel. Paul hung in his in frustration. "The people in the rooms up and now downstairs, not to mention the ones next door call my office. All of them were saying there was yelling and fighting in your room."  
  
"Well, you see Mr. Hoshi; my friend here has trouble seeing without his glasses. What happen was he hit his arm on the table," Paul snatched Mousse's arm showing him the bruise hoping the man doesn't know the difference, "and he yelled out because...well...that hurts."  
  
"Does your 'friend' also quack like a duck because at least two people said they heard a duck in your room?" Mr. Hoshi poked his head around Sherman and saw feathers scattered all over kicked over furniture and a broken lamp. "Mr. Sherman, take your 'friend' and your duck and get out of my hotel, now!"  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Paul Sherman was eating lunch at one of the McDonald's that opened in recent years in Japan. Paul's clothes were wrinkled; his face unshaved. He reeked of pungent body odor. When he sat down with his order, the person next to him moved over to another seat. Paul stared at his burger looking disinterested in it. He signed and bit into it. Half way through his dinner, he met the last person he wanted to see: Mousse.  
  
"Mr. Sherman, can I talk with you?"  
  
"You think you'd cause me enough problems already? I've been sleeping in my car for four days now. Word got out I was trouble and no one will rent me an apartment. And I've been eating nothing but fast food, and I hate fast food."  
  
"Mr. Sherman, I feel very awful that I cause you so much trouble after everything you done for me. And I would like to make it up..."  
  
"Save it kid. Help likes yours I don't need."  
  
"I have a place of my own just outside of Nermia. You can stay there."  
  
"No thanks. I'll just grid my teeth and bear it for the rest of my stay."  
  
"Please Mr. Sherman, I'm begging you. At least listen to what I have to say."  
  
Paul took a deep breath. "I'm going to regret this; okay, I'm all ears."  
  
"Come on, we'll talk at my place."  
  
"So let me get this straight: you no longer in love with Shampoo and you don't want to kill yourself anymore.  
  
"It's useless to pine over a girl like that," Mousse sighed. "I still have feelings for her, but then I think about what you said. It's pointless to be in one-sided relationship. She never loved me, and that isn't going to change."  
  
"So, my little rescue operation wasn't a total waste of time."  
  
"But what do I live for?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I centered my entire life on winning Shampoo's heart. She was my reason for living. Everything I did, I did for her."  
  
"But now that you'd given up on her, there's nothing left for you." Mousse nodded his head. "Which was why you wouldn't give up." Mousse's eyes watered up with a solitary tear running down his cheek."  
  
"I don't have anything now: No mother or father or cousins, nothing, and it's all thanks to that old dried up mummy."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"I was talking about Cologne."  
  
"Those Amazons don't really like you very much."  
  
"Amazons don't have a high opinion of men. There are a few people that still care, but they can't protect me from the rest of the village if our matriarch declares Ja'Noise Ho."  
  
"But you have people who care about you here. I got it on tape."  
  
"They're nice people, nicer than anyone I knew in my village except for my immediate family, but they're not my friends. We had, let's just say, some disagreements."  
  
"They didn't seem to be too bothered by your disagreements to me."  
  
"They were just feeling sorry for me. Besides, I can't stand being in Nermia, not while Shampoo is there." Mousse slumped his head.  
  
"You're young and you have your whole life ahead of you. Give it some time, and it'll all make sense eventually."  
  
"You know," Mousse looked up at Paul, "I bear my soul to you but I don't know anything about you. And what's this 'Armament' thing about. You're some kind of superhero of something."  
  
"I'm not even a hero, let along 'super'. The term you're looking for is 'vigilante'."  
  
"But how did you get to be a vigilante anyway?"  
  
"I was born in Atlanta during Jim Crow."  
  
"Jim Crow? Is he your father?"  
  
"Jim Crow is segregation. Blacks weren't allowed to use the same restaurants or ride on the same seat or even go to the same bathrooms as whites. When I was growing up, it was all natural to me. We didn't know anything else. But then I joined the Army. It was during the Korean War. The Army wasn't segregated like the rest of the country. For the first time in my life, I saw whites treating blacks like equals. I got a kick out of seeing a black drill sergeant chewing out those white boys. So, when I got out of the Army and it was back to Jim Crow, I wasn't too happy about it. I had a taste of equality and I wasn't going back to being some man's dog. I joined the Civil Rights movement and did it all: sit-ins, marches, protests, and even had a run in with the police now and again." Paul was feeling enthused by the memories surfacing from the sea of time. "It was tough, but we won. Or so I thought. But then, it stopped being safe. Drugs sold in broad daylight, muggings, rape, murder, and no fear of the law. People barred up their windows and lock themselves away becoming prisoners in their own homes. It was like we traded in one taskmaster for another. Jim Crow and the Ku Klux Klan were replaced by street gangs and drugs on the streets." The energy and vigor in Paul's voice was replaced with despair and regret.  
  
"That was when you turned into Armament, right."  
  
"I didn't turn into anything. I'm Paul Sherman, and I always will be. Armament is just my street name. I slipped on a mask and packed my coat with as many non-lethals as possible and hit the street. At first, I was just a rumor. Eventually, the papers caught on and named me Armament. I did the vigilante jig for twenty-five years before I quit."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Put those damn glasses on Mousse. I'm not getting any younger. Hands aren't as steady; can't keep up with the bad guys on foot; the usual ailments that come with old age."  
  
"Then why take your costume and weapons with you."  
  
"It started a year ago. Someone new was moving in, and they all spoke Japanese."  
  
"Yazuka?"  
  
"I didn't spend a quarter of a century fighting off the scum of the earth for the Japanese Mafia to waltz in and take over. I'm going on the offensive and give them as much grief I can muster up until..."  
  
"Until what?"  
  
"Until they throw me a retirement party! What do you think I mean, Mousse?"  
  
Mousse balled up his fist. "I can't believe this, you old hypocrite."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"You heard me. All that not giving up and killing yourself talk was just that: talk. You're on a suicide mission."  
  
"You're comparing what I'm doing to killing yourself for a girl?" Paul chuckled.  
  
"No, but you are giving up. You should never get into a fight you don't intend on winning. If you don't plan on putting an end to the Yazuka once and for all, you might as well go home."  
  
"Look her you little punk," Paul fumed, "you think I want to do this? I don't have any other choice. I can't beat the Yazuka. Maybe in my younger days and if I had an army at my disposal, but I don't. So I have to make do."  
  
"You have me."  
  
"Oh please."  
  
"I'm a lot more powerful than you even imagine."  
  
"Now looks who trying to be the superhero."  
  
"I can help you, really." Paul Sherman just shook his head. Then Mousse thought of a way to convince him. "There's no way you can stop me from helping you. So you might as well let me join in."  
  
Paul pulled out his gun. "Some people never learn. Look, it's not good for your health if I keep pumping tranquilizers in your system."  
  
"I'm game if you are."  
  
"Have it your way. Good luck on your new life." Paul fired his gun at Mousse's chest, but the tranquilizer dart didn't hit. Paul looked over his gun and pulled back the bolt to see if was jammed.  
  
"Looking for this." Paul Sherman was in awe to see his tranquilizer dart between Mousse's index and middle finger. Mousse let the dart fall to the floor. "Wanna try again?"  
  
Paul emptied the magazine of his gun only to find every single round between Mousse's fingers. "H...h...how?"  
  
"My teacher in the martial arts of hidden weapons and my battles with Ranma has taught me well."  
  
"But I tagged you at the train tracks."  
  
"That was only because I wanted you to hit me, remember?"  
  
"But Shampoo? How did she..."  
  
"Shampoo's no slouch in the martial arts herself, and she took me by surprise too."  
  
"Unbelievable. You must be the baddest man in Japan!"  
  
"No, that title belongs to those old crones, Cologne, and Happosai." Mousse sounded spiteful when he mentioned Happosai and Cologne's name.  
  
"But the Yazuka won't be using tranquilizer darts, they'll be using real bullets and it'll be a small army of them. You can't dodge everything."  
  
"But it takes them forever to draw their guns and take aim. If I can catch your tranquilizer darts, I can beat them on the quick draw. Besides, you survived this long, and you don't have any martial arts training."  
  
"Hey, I took a self-defense course." Mousse looked surprised at Paul before he slapped his hand over his mouth trying not to laugh. Paul gave Mousse a dirty look before he started giggling at the joke himself. Both men fell over laughing.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Well that's it for now. Will they survive the encounter or die in a blaze of glory (and a pool of their own blood)? Stay tune next time when Mousse and Paul makes their assault on the Yazuka. And thanks to Maricruz for proofreading my fic. 


End file.
